


Our Hearts With Loyal Flames

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Can be read as OT3, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis and Porthos refuse to let Athos succumb to his demons, however much he believes he deserves to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Hearts With Loyal Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Some quick wine-fuelled (on the part of both Athos and myself) angst.

It was the fingers combing gently through his damp hair that pushed back some of the shadows that had been steadily encroaching ever since he had lifted the first bottle to his lips countless hours before. The unwelcome clarity brought with it an equally unwanted awareness; the cold flags beneath him, the chill air against his skin, the roiling of his stomach, the throbbing behind his eyes.

A small groan escaped him unbidden and the caress of the hand now smoothing over his brow grew even more tender. No one was supposed to be here; he had sought the company of solitude, pursuing penance for a crime that nobody else could comprehend. One that echoed through time and still haunted him, even now.

Wrenching his head to the side, he shook off the gentle touch, undeserving of the caring kindness it conveyed. The only sentiment he merited was that of contempt and condemnation. Why did they consistently refuse to acknowledge his failings?

“Athos.”

Ignoring the compassion in the voice that spoke his name, he reached out blindly for the bottle he knew was beside him only to feel it tugged all too easily from his grasp just as his fingers closed around its neck.

“You’ve had enough.”

Baring his teeth in a wretchedly pathetic attempt at remonstration, he made a feeble grab for the bottle, his limbs uncharacteristically uncoordinated, and it was held effortlessly from his reach. Slumping back against the hard, unyielding wall, he closed his eyes tightly, willing his uninvited guests away.

But ridding oneself of those from whom one is inseparable is no easily accomplished task.

A strong arm looped around his waist, and for a brief moment he sank into the secure embrace and the protection it promised. But no, he couldn’t risk allowing that which wore the façade of love to seize him once again; it was the core of his sins, the reason he was beyond forgiveness.

The arm refused to let him pull away, only clutching him tighter and easing him up from the floor. His legs refused to bear his weight, but he was held aloft by that sturdy hold, and all his remaining energy was instead refocused on forcing down the bile that rose in his throat with an acidic burn as his stomach churned nauseatingly at the sudden motion.

By the time he was lowered onto the bed, he was shaking, his fists clenched in an impotent attempt to control the tremor so as to avoid inspiring any more unwarranted worry. It didn’t work.

Still held firm in the determined embrace, he was tugged closer until he could do nothing but sag against a broad, solid chest, its robust strength providing a warm sanctuary that his exhaustion slowly began to accept while his mind obstinately continued to resist. One of his hands was clasped and tightly pressed by resolute fingers.

“Athos, look at me.”

He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to see the judgment that must surely lurk in the eyes that regarded him.

Or, worse, the pity.

“We know you suffer an inner turmoil.” There was no trace of pity, only kind concern that was sorely misplaced. “But to see you like this hurts us, too.”

“Then go.” His voice was a raw imitation of its usual assured command. “Leave me.”

“Never.” The single word rumbled through him from the body beside his, its unwavering certainty almost a physical entity passing between them.

The hand holding his squeezed harder, confirming the sentiment. “We’re not leaving you.”

The protest he wanted to voice died on his tongue as he finally opened his eyes and looked into Aramis’s open gaze, seeing only unconcealed, anguished affection. Porthos grunted his agreement, not letting his hold slacken for even a moment.

The constriction that seized his chest would have given rise to tears had his mind not been so numb, but the shadows did recede just that little bit further.

And somewhere deep within his breast, his soul rebelled, and he stopped fighting.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from _To Althea, From Prison_ , by Richard Lovelace.


End file.
